Lucas stood at the end of the hallway, breathing hard.

His eyes kept moving between me and the ultrasound.

—Whose baby is it?

The nurse looked uncomfortable.

I answered calmly.

—Mine.

—You know what I mean.

—Do I?

He crossed the distance between us.

—How far along are you?

—Eight weeks.

His face changed.

He calculated immediately.

—Then it’s mine.

I didn’t answer.

Lucas looked toward the surgical doors.

Then at the consent form in my hand.

—You’re ending the pregnancy?

—That was the plan.

—Without telling me?

I almost laughed.

—You spent yesterday accompanying another pregnant woman to her appointment.

—Serena has nobody!

—And I did?

He froze.

For the first time, he seemed to see the absurdity.

I had attended every examination alone.

I had dealt with nausea between consultations.

I had hidden crackers in my desk because mornings had become difficult.

And my husband hadn’t noticed.

Yet Serena mentioned feeling dizzy once, and he arrived with a thermos.

Lucas grabbed the divorce papers.

—Is this because of Serena?

—No.

That answer seemed to frighten him more.

—Then why?

—Because of us.

I looked at the agreement.

—Serena didn’t destroy our marriage. She simply made me stop pretending it was still alive.

His grip tightened.

—Come home. We’ll discuss everything.

—There’s nothing left to discuss.

—Wen Ning—

—Yesterday you told me not to think too much.

I looked directly at him.

—Today I’m asking you for the same courtesy.

The doctor interrupted gently.

Because Lucas was not the patient, he could not make the decision for me.

Lucas stared at me for several seconds.

Then he stepped aside.

I expected him to shout.

Instead, he whispered:

—If you’ve decided, I won’t force you.

That surprised me.

I entered the consultation room alone.

But I did not proceed that morning.

Not because Lucas had appeared.

Not because he begged me.

He hadn’t.

I asked for more time because, sitting there with the final consent form in front of me, I realized I wanted one decision in my life that wasn’t made while I was reacting to Lucas.

I rescheduled.

Then I left through another exit.

Lucas was still waiting outside the first one when my taxi drove away.

That afternoon, my lawyer called.

—Mr. Lu signed.

I closed my eyes.

—Already?

—Yes.

A strange ache passed through me.

So easily.

Four years of marriage ended with two signatures.

Then my lawyer added:

—But he included no property dispute and waived his right to contest the separation agreement.

—Good.

—There’s something else.

—What?

—His assistant delivered a second envelope.

Inside was a handwritten note.

“I won’t interfere with your medical decision. But I want one chance to explain Serena.”

I tore it in half.

I didn’t need explanations.

Three days later, however, Serena came to find me.

She wasn’t crying.

She wasn’t smug either.

She looked exhausted.

—Dr. Wen, can we talk?

—If this concerns Lucas, no.

—It concerns my baby.

I stopped.

She placed a folder on my desk.

—Lucas isn’t the father.

I looked at her.

—That was never my business.

—But he knows.

That made me pause.

Serena sat down.

—My fiancé died four months ago.

She pushed a photograph toward me.

A smiling man stood beside her.

—Daniel Chen. Lucas’s university roommate.

I remembered the name.

Lucas had attended a funeral months earlier and returned after midnight.

He had never explained much.

Serena continued:

—Daniel asked Lucas to look after me if anything happened.

So that was the explanation.

A promise.

A dead friend.

Not an affair.

I should have felt relieved.

Instead, I felt nothing.

—Why didn’t Lucas tell me?

Serena looked away.

—Because I asked him not to.

—Why?

Her fingers tightened.

—Daniel’s family doesn’t know about the pregnancy. They opposed our relationship. If they discover the baby exists, there will be a custody dispute over the inheritance.

I understood.

Then she said:

—But there’s something you should know.

I waited.

—Lucas told me several times that he needed to tell you.

—Yet he didn’t.

—Because every time he tried, something happened with me.

I almost smiled.

—Exactly.

Serena looked confused.

—You don’t understand. He loves you.

—Perhaps.

I leaned back.

—But love that is constantly postponed feels remarkably similar to indifference.

She couldn’t answer that.

Before leaving, Serena placed something else on my desk.

A small paper bag.

Inside was a pair of baby socks.

—Lucas bought them.

I frowned.

—When?

—Yesterday.

My chest tightened despite myself.

—Why are you giving them to me?

—Because he asked me whether pregnant women become cold easily.

She smiled sadly.

—He doesn’t know anything.

I looked away.

No.

He didn’t.

And learning after receiving divorce papers didn’t erase years of not learning.

That evening, Lucas didn’t come home.

Technically, it was no longer his home.

He had moved into a hotel.

For the first time since our marriage, the apartment was completely mine.

A week passed.

Then two.

Lucas respected the distance.

No calls.

No surprise visits.

He sent only one message after each prenatal appointment date passed:

“Are you safe?”

I answered once.

“Yes.”

Nothing more.

I still hadn’t decided about the pregnancy.

My appointment had been moved twice.

I hated myself for hesitating.

Then one afternoon, while reviewing a patient’s chart, I received a call from my lawyer.

—Wen Ning, we found something unusual during the marital asset review.

—What?

—Lucas transferred most of his personal shares into a trust three years ago.

I frowned.

—Why does that concern me?

—Because you’re the beneficiary.

I stopped writing.

—What?

—Not you exactly.

A pause.

—Your future children.

I couldn’t speak.

—The trust was created three years ago. Long before your current pregnancy.

That made no sense.

Lucas had never talked about children.

Whenever his mother mentioned grandchildren, he changed the subject.

—Why would he do that?

—You’ll have to ask him.

I didn’t.

Instead, that evening, I opened the locked cabinet in his study.

The key was still where it had always been.

Inside were financial documents.

Insurance policies.

Property certificates.

Then I found a blue folder.

My name was written on it.

WEN NING.

Inside were copies of every medical article I had published.

My promotion letter.

Photographs from conferences.

Even the newspaper clipping from the year I became the youngest deputy director in my department.

He had kept everything.

At the bottom was another folder.

“Pregnancy.”

My hands began trembling.

The date on it was not from eight weeks ago.

It was from three years earlier.

I opened it.

Hospital records.

My hospital.

My name.

A pregnancy test.

Positive.

I stared at the date.

Impossible.

I had never been pregnant three years ago.

Then I saw another document.

Procedure record.

Pregnancy terminated at approximately seven weeks.

Patient signature:

Wen Ning.

Except the signature wasn’t mine.

My entire body went cold.

I called Lucas.

He answered immediately.

—Wen Ning?

—Come home.

Twenty minutes later, he entered the study.

I threw the folder onto the desk.

—Explain this.

Lucas looked down.

Every trace of color disappeared from his face.

—Where did you find that?

—Why does my medical record say I had a pregnancy terminated three years ago?

He didn’t answer.

—And why is the signature forged?

Lucas slowly sat down.

For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes.

Real fear.

—You weren’t supposed to find this yet.

I stepped backward.

—You knew?

—Yes.

The room seemed to tilt.

—Was I pregnant?

—Yes.

My fingers became numb.

—Then why don’t I remember?

Lucas closed his eyes.

—Because you never knew.

Silence.

He continued:

—Three years ago, after your car accident, the hospital discovered you were pregnant during emergency testing.

I remembered the accident.

Two days of fragmented memories.

Medication.

A concussion.

My mother sitting beside my bed.

Lucas had been abroad.

Or so I had been told.

—What happened to the baby?

Lucas looked at the forged signature.

—That’s what I’ve spent three years trying to discover.

My breathing stopped.

—What do you mean?

He opened his phone.

A photograph appeared.

An internal hospital surveillance image.

My mother stood beside a woman wearing surgical scrubs.

They were exchanging an envelope.

The timestamp matched the day of the supposed procedure.

Lucas spoke quietly.

—There is no operating-room record proving the procedure ever happened.

I stared at him.

—Then where is my baby?

His next words barely came out.

—Two months ago, I finally found the nurse who was on duty that night.

I couldn’t breathe.

—What did she say?

Lucas looked directly at me.

—She said your pregnancy was never terminated.

A pause.

—She said someone arranged for everyone around you to believe it was.

I gripped the desk.

—Why?

Lucas unlocked another file.

This time the photograph showed a little boy.

About three years old.

Dark hair.

Serious eyes.

Standing beside my mother.

I had never seen him before.

Lucas’s voice broke.

—Because she says this child is ours.